


permanent ink

by vivilove



Series: Tattoos & Scars [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Angst and Feels, Ex-con Jon, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family Feels, Guilt, Love, Past Abuse (mentioned), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use (mentioned), Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Personal Growth, Time to meet up with Mama Cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:32:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: She's determined, his girl.  If you're gauging solely on looks, she appears so delicate.  But he's constantly amazed by how strong she is.“I thought you liked the transitional aspect of henna, the becoming and then the leaving it behind.”“Never going to let that go, huh?”  He chuckles until her scowl changes into a softer look and she takes his hand.  "I want something permanent that I won't leave behind."She's not trembling anymore but maybe he is.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Tattoos & Scars [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660783
Comments: 338
Kudos: 434





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts).



> Decided to go ahead and make this a short multi-chapter to cover the rest of the things I want to say with these two. Gifted to Amy for inspiring this series in the first place with her dialogue prompt, her lovely series 'Finding My Voice' and for making the awesome poster below! I really hope you all enjoy it :)

“Are you sure, baby? You don’t have to do this tonight. You can change your mind.”

“I’m sure.” But she’s trembling a smidgen. He doesn’t want her to be afraid. He doesn’t want her to regret this either.

“These don’t fade away. It’s a pain in the ass getting rid of these.”

She rolls her eyes at his coddling. “I know that.”

“I thought you liked the transitional aspect of henna, the becoming and then the leaving it behind.”

“Never going to let that go, huh?” He chuckles until her scowl changes into a softer look and she takes his hand. "I want something permanent that I won't leave behind."

She’s not trembling anymore but maybe he is.

He kisses her brow as Val, Dalla’s sister, walks back in with her kit. Sansa had said she’d feel more comfortable with a woman and, lucky for them, Val not only fits the bill in that respect, she knows her shit and has a great touch with the needle. She did Jon’s last tattoo so he feels comfortable recommending her. Plus, her being Dalla’s sister puts Sansa more at ease.

“What’d you want, honey?” Val asks.

Sansa eyes the needles warily but then flips open her notebook. “Can you do this?”

It’s a wolf’s head that she’d sketched. It looks a lot like the one on his shoulder. Is he reading a lot into that? Yeah, he is.

Val peers at the sketch and he can see her smirking. She’s seen his wolf so she recognizes how similar it is even if it’s a good deal smaller. _That’s right. We’re not transitional. We’re permanent._ God, he wants them to be.

Okay, they only admitted they were in love ten days ago but, for once, he’s letting himself aim high in his hopes. _Like that little old ant and the rubber tree plant_. His mother used to sing him that one when he was a kid.

“I can do that. Where’d you want it?”

“My, uh…” Sansa starts blushing and he suddenly realizes why she might’ve wanted a woman tattoo artist. “I was thinking…” She points.

“Okay, thigh’s not too bad for us girls if you’re a first timer. It’s good you wore a skirt. Did you really do this henna?" she asks, looking at Sansa's ankles and feet.

"Yeah."

"She did mine, too," he says proudly, showing off the one on his neck. 

"That's nice work. We used to have someone here who'd do that. If you want some work, let me know."

Sansa blinks, surprised. He's not surprised. He'd told her there was probably money in it. 

Sansa signs the paperwork and listens to Val’s instructions before settling the payment. Then, Val tells her to lie down and hike the skirt up.

As Val’s getting everything set and gloving up, Sansa reaches for his hand, her big blue eyes showing some fear but also determination.

“I’m here,” he tells her. _I'll never leave._ “You’re sure about this?”

She gives him a smile and kisses his knuckles. “I’m sure.”

* * *

  
“Are you sure, baby? We don’t have to.” This feels familiar.

“I’m sure."

"You don't have anything to prove," he says, cupping her cheek.

"It's not that. I want...I enjoy sex with you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

She snorts before growing serious again as he lightly traces her collarbone. "I don't want...what happened down there to define me. Me and you, we're not that. We can do whatever we want to together, right?”

She's determined, his girl. If you're gauging solely on looks, she appears so delicate. But he's constantly amazed by how strong she is. 

“If you change your mind…”

“I’ll tell you. I trust you, Jon.”

She does and that is so fucking unbelievable to him sometimes. From the girl who felt safer on top those first few weeks, she’s becoming more and more eager to explore. Not that there’s a damn thing wrong with her riding him. He loves it. But the fact that she’s comfortable with him, feels safe with him, knows she’s loved and he won’t hurt her and she can try different positions with him, that’s something special that he won’t take for granted.

They’re naked and resting on their knees, face to face, on his bed. He leans forward to kiss her, lets himself savor the taste of her mouth and the moan she can’t hold back as the kiss deepens.

She reaches for him and he jumps at her touch, eyes fluttering closed. Her hand slides downward to cup his balls, squeezing lightly and stroking them. He's hard as a rock and aching. He shudders when she lets go.

When he opens his eyes again, she’s turned. On hands and knees with her ass right there. She’s looking over her shoulder at him, gives a cheeky wink and then a shimmy. “Well? What’re you going to do about this?” she taunts.

“Ah, fuck…”

He dives forward, eliciting an adorable yelp and then a very unlady-like groan when he starts tonguing her. With one hand on her back, he pushes her head and shoulders down onto the pillow, making her ass jut upwards a little higher for him.

“Relax, baby.”

She sucks in a slow breath and does. Her hips and thighs spread. She opens herself up to him like a beautiful flower unfurling its petals for the sun. He kisses her pussy, licks at her folds and teases her clit, tracing circles around it with his tongue. She’s panting into the pillow, ass high in the air and legs spread wide.

“More?”

She nods fervently and he can’t hold back a smug chuckle. She’d asked him to take her from behind tonight but he’s damn well going to get her off this way first.

He knows his woman and what she likes. He sucks on two of his fingers before letting them slip inside her hot, tight cunt. It’s a little more difficult this way as opposed to her lying on her back, spread out beneath him but where there’s a will…

He swirls his tongue around her clit and starts pumping his fingers inside of her, building steadily towards a crescendo. And then he sucks at her clit just so and…

_“Ohhhhh!”_

His beard’s sopping wet from her juices as she seems to have melted into the mattress.

“You alright?”

 _“Mmm-hmm,”_ comes the dazed reply.

“Am I still doing this?”

She’s back up on her knees again, looking over her shoulder and grinning with her beautiful auburn hair trailing down her back. “You bet your sweet ass, you are. Take me.”

“It’s your ass that’s sweet,” he replies, giving one cheek a squeeze…and then a kiss…and then a bite.

“Jon!” she shrieks but she’s laughing and he is, too.

He’s careful to avoid putting his hand on the outside of her thigh where the tattoo is still healing. It’s been six days and it’s started to peel. It’ll be a couple of weeks before it’s healed enough for her to stand anything but the most gentle touches there. But it's permanent ink. It's not going anywhere and neither is he. 

He reaches for a condom, grasps his cock to roll it down and then guides himself to her center, pushing forward and closing his eyes to relish the feel of her tight wet walls welcoming him inside.

He thrusts slowly at first, in and out shallowly, letting her get used to the position and angle.

She’d said she’s experience pain and discomfort from this before but it’s not about the position so much as the asshole who didn’t care if he was hurting her, who probably got off knowing that.

He bites his lip and gives his head a shake, shooing the infuriating thought away like he might shoo away a fly. “Is it okay, baby?”

“It’s fine. It’s…” She rears back impatiently. “More.”

Goddamn, she’ll be the death of his restraint. A few more shallow thrusts and then he places his hands on her hips and pulls her back. He snaps his own hips forcefully, filling her.

They both gasp and he prays that’s a good gasp for her because it’s sure as hell a good gasp for him. "Alright?" he asks in a strangled tone. She grunts a yes so he grips her hips a little tighter and starts moving more steadily. “Fuck, you feel so good. Your pussy’s so damn _tight_ and _wet_ and… _perfect_ on my cock.” He emphasizes the words with deep thrusts.

“God, yes. Like that,” she whimpers.

But her hands are grasping the pillow so tight her knuckles are turning white. “Does it hurt?”

“No. I want more.”

He repeats the motion and they find their rhythm, him thrusting forwards and her rearing back in time to take as much of him in as possible, up to the hilt with his balls pressing against her clit.

His control is stretched thin but he’s mindful of her pleasure. He leans forward for a moment, pressing his lips to her back. “Touch yourself, baby. Rub your clit while I fuck you.”

A low, needy groan from her as one of her hands rises from the pillow and slithers between her thighs. Her fingers graze his balls and he feels the heady rush coming. He picks up his pace. He can feel her tightening up and the tension is building in him. He's like a spring, wound so tight.

"Harder, Jon. Faster," she begs, arching her back and making the angle feel even better, pulling him in deeper.

“Goddamn, goddamn…”

He releases one hip long enough to gather a silky red rope of her hair and twist it around his fist. With his hand on her back he starts pounding into her with abandon. She throws her head back and cries out. The wet sounds of their flesh meeting fill his bedroom along with the creaking of his bedsprings and the steady thump of his headboard hitting the wall. That crusty old Thorne fucker next door likes giving Jon the side eye every time they cross paths around the complex. He hopes they're keeping him up. 

He looks down to where they're joined, watching himself slide in and out of her. He feels her walls start to clench around him. She’s cumming and he’s right behind her. The pressure in his balls snaps and he’s floating, pleasure surging throughout his body with his release and a low rumbling groan spilling from his lips.

A few more pumps and his eyes are glued to the hair around his hand and lower. He pictures doing this again but with no condom and pulling out in time to shoot his load across her back and perfect ass. He’s allowed a filthy thought or two, right?

Releasing her hair, he pulls her closer, her back against his front with one arm cradling her to him. “Sansa?” He leans forward and to the side enough to see her face with one armed braced on the mattress so he doesn't crush her. Her grin is infectious. “All good?” he asks, already smiling. 

She rolls out from under him unexpectedly, leaving him unsteady, and she’s on her back, grinning and nodding. "That was...holy shit," she snickers.

He collapses right beside her, chuckling before pulling her to him for a kiss. "Holy shit is right." 

He thinks his ass and the bed are two magnets meeting, a match made in Heaven, and doesn't want to get up ever again. It’s a good thing he’s off tomorrow. He feels like he could sleep ten hours straight his body’s so relaxed.

She goes to pee and he takes care of the condom. They brush their teeth, pull on old soft tees, say their 'I love you's' and they’re ready to nestle down for some sleep. She’s lightly caressing his arm and he’s got his woman wrapped up so close. He kisses the base of her throat and shoulder languidly.

His eyelashes tickle against her neck, she says.

“Rapid eye movement,” he says, drowsily. He’s already drifting off.

And that’s when her phone starts ringing.

His eyes fly open. “Motherfucker.” It’s nearly 10:30. Who the fuck…

She grabs it off the nightstand and scowls but whoever it is, she doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Mom?”

_Motherfucker._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and encouraging comments are very much appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

Fifteen minutes later, they’re dressed and he’s driving Sansa’s car. _To the rescue,_ he thinks with a smirk even as his belly's knotting up.

Rickon had been at a friend’s house spending the night but had an asthma attack. The other mom had freaked and called Mrs. Stark who’d went to pick up her son. On the way home, a tire had blown out. No answer from Robb so she’d called Sansa. 

_“She said roadside assistance was going to take a bit to get someone to her and she wants me to get Rickon home.”_

_“Okay but I can fix a flat.”_

“I know how to fix a flat,” Mrs. Stark tells him a short while later when he’s pulling the jack from the back of her luxury SUV. 

“Uh huh,” he says noncommittedly rather than ask why the hell she’s not fixing it then. It’s dark and late and cold out here. He just wants to get back to his place and sleep. He sure hopes Sansa won’t drop him off and go back to her mom’s tonight because of this.

“Well, I…” She clears her throat and at first he thinks she’s afraid he’s about to hold her up or something but then realizes she’s embarrassed. “Ned taught me how to change a tire once but that was more than twenty years ago. Maybe closer to thirty. I don’t think I could do it on my own now.” 

He makes a mental note of that. He’s going to make sure Sansa knows how to change a tire. And he’s going to make sure she has more than one lesson in a lifetime. 

He also didn’t miss the sadness in her tone. She’s never had to manage a flat tire without her Ned to turn to. Even though he thinks Mrs. Stark hates him, he doesn’t hate her. He just feels sorry for her. 

But she’d called Robb first, Sansa had said. Where is Robb anyway? This is his mom and they all have cell phones. 

He won’t ask. He doesn’t care where Robb is. He doesn’t want to talk to him anytime soon…maybe never again. 

_Yeah, but you can’t ignore Sansa’s brother’s existence forever, not if things are going to continue with you and her._

It’s true. He wants him and Sansa to be as lasting as that wolf’s head tattoo she got. They can be permanent ink and not fade away like henna. 

“Where’s Robb?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“I don’t know. He didn’t answer.” She sounds resigned. “He’s been upset with me lately,” she finishes in a low voice. 

He glances up at Mrs. Stark who looks as tired as he feels. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and sneakers but had chosen to throw on a nicer sweater with it. She was probably all settled for bed too before she got her call. Rickon’s thirteen and her baby but he knows she’d head out in the dead of night for any of them. Once upon a time, she might've done that for him even. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you squared away so you can take Rickon home.” _You can take Rickon home and I’ll take Sansa back to mine._

“Thank you, Jon.” 

She still wears her hair long and it’s still red, a darker hue than her daughter’s but no less lovely. A memory surfaces from when he’d been a kid and wandered into the Starks’ kitchen for a juice box. Mr. Stark had been petting his wife’s hair as they’d kissed. They hadn’t seen him and he’d crept back out, feeling embarrassed at walking in on Robb’s parents kissing, worried that they might be angry with him for being there and sad for his own mother somehow, all at once. It’d been a lot of feelings to process when he’d been younger than Rickon even. But he thinks he wouldn’t mind holding Sansa in a kitchen of their own someday, petting her hair and kissing her and he wouldn’t care if the neighbor’s kid walked in either. 

Normally, Mrs. Stark’s got a headband on or puts her hair up in a bun. Tonight, it’s hanging loose in waves and she’s twisting some of it between her fingers. 

Maybe she’s nervous having Jon Snow’s felonious ass here changing her tire in the dark of night after he’s been banging her daughter, taking her to tattoo parlors and ruining her prospects for a country club marriage forever. 

Or maybe she’s twisting her hair that way for another reason, like she’s upset.

He gets the spare out and rolls it to the front of the vehicle. Sansa’s in her car with Rickon to get him out of the cold. Rickon’s been bitching about his mom coming to get him. Apparently, the asthma attack wasn’t all that bad and he’d had his inhaler. He’d not wanted to leave but Mrs. Stark had insisted. He gets why the kid’s pissed. He would’ve been mortified at his age to have his mommy come get him in the middle of a sleepover with a friend. 

But what kills him is the way Rickon looks at him now, Rickon who at three was always clinging to Jon Snow whenever he’d come over, asking for piggy back rides and shit. And he’d gladly given them. 

He’s loved that kid like a little brother. Bran, too. But Bran is seventeen and hasn’t grown afraid of him like Rickon apparently did somewhere along the line. Jon Snow, the monster who lived next door, the kid who smoked pot, talked back to teachers and got in fights at school. The one who stole shit and committed vandalism. The guy who nearly beat a man to death. The one with all the tattoos who’s been to prison, a convicted felon.

“He's not always so...moody. He’s struggled some since Ned’s passing,” Mrs. Stark says as if she can read the current of Jon’s thoughts as he squats down to get to work. 

“Yeah, I can imagine.” 

He can and he can’t. His dad was never around like Mr. Stark at all. If he turned up dead, Jon couldn't say he'd struggle with the news one bit. And yet, in a way, he does have an idea of just what all the Starks had lost the day Ned Stark had died. He'd lost something, too.

He closes his eyes against the rising tide of emotions, of remorse, sadness and guilt the memories bring. 

It had begun when Ygritte had started riding the same bus home from school. She’d been a year ahead and ran with a different crowd than him and Robb but she’d seemed to take to Jon like a duck to water right off. He started staying on the bus longer to get off at her stop instead, walking the extra blocks home just so he could have a little more time with her, the redhaired girl with the crooked grin who liked to flirt with him for some reason. She invited him in for soda one day which had become a beer instead. Neither of them had a dad around and their moms worked late. 

He'd smoked weed for the first time the same afternoon she'd given him his first hickey. A week later, Robb had asked him to get off at the regular stop with him and come over. Jon had told him thanks but no thanks. He’d felt guilty when he’d seen Robb’s look of disappointment but then again, Robb hadn’t got his hands on a girl’s tits that day either. 

A few days later, he'd followed Ygritte to the corner store and stole a carton of cigarettes while she distracted the clerk. Guilt ate at him the whole way back to her house until he got his first handjob in Ygritte’s bedroom while her mom made them pot roast in the kitchen and smoked the Salems they'd 'bought' her. He supposes Ygritte had pocketed the cash. 

When her old man had blown off her seventeenth birthday, Ygritte had decided to bash in the windows of his real estate office. Jon had come along and helped, feeling queasy and ready to throw up from nerves the whole time. They’d heard the sirens coming their way and ran all the way back to her house. His heart had been pounding so hard but she’d laughed and pulled him to her for a kiss the instant they were behind closed doors. He’d lost his cherry that night…and they’d both been cited with vandalism the next day. Ygritte had shrugged it off and said her pop would drop the charges. Jon’s mom had been so shocked and ashamed and he really had thrown up after he’d been booked even if the charges had indeed wound up getting dismissed. 

That had been the way of it with them. If he was pleasing Ygritte, he was always letting someone else down or left feeling so much guilt. If he didn’t please Ygritte…well, he’d been fifteen and he wasn’t too interested in stopping some of the things they were doing.

He went another year, getting by and not getting caught before he got suspended for a fight at school. They’d checked his locker and found some pills Ygritte had asked him to keep for her. So the suspension had become an expulsion and his mother had cried and gone crying to their neighbors. 

That’s when Mr. Stark had come to talk to him. He hadn’t wanted to listen but he also couldn’t help but listen. Mr. Stark had been the closest thing to a father figure he’d ever had. 

_“We all love you no matter what but we know you can do better than this, Jon.”_

And he’d promised to do better, his face burning with shame as he furiously wiped his tears away. Mr. Stark had gave him a one-armed hug and ruffled his hair and told him that he only wanted the best for him. 

_“It’s never too late to get things figured out, son.”_

No man had called him son before.

But then, poor Ned had had a heart attack not too long after that talk, right after Jon had turned seventeen. It had left him reeling…and angry. Coincidentally or not, he’d made the jump from petty kid stuff to more serious charges soon after that. 

Him and Ygritte had got pulled over in her car smoking shit. The pigs who’d stopped them were quite a pair. One had Jon thrown across the back of his squad car like he’d just caught a serial killer instead of a teenager with a dime bag. The other had been patting down Ygritte. Except he wasn’t just patting her down. He’d stuck his hand up her skirt and started saying dirty shit about ways she could avoid getting taken in. Jon had snapped and wound up with two counts of assault on an officer even though he’d been the one who’d got his ass handed to him that night. He’d got himself an extended stretch in Juvenile, too.

Ygritte had been waiting when he got out, her record wiped clean in exchange for going along with the ‘official’ version of the incident. He didn’t blame her but his life had continued its downward spiral from there.

By the time he was nineteen, Ygritte was just a memory having moved on to another town and another guy. All he'd felt by that point was relief that it was finally over between them. 

But his mom had had a new boyfriend and he’d left her black and blue one night. So, Jon had went for some retribution and left him with a dozen broken bones and on a ventilator. The guy was well-off and connected and Jon and his mom weren’t anyone. Plus, Jon already had a record.

_And that was all she wrote. I never did any better and never got things figured out, Mr. Stark._

“Jon?”

He’s nearly done with the tire. He’s been on autopilot changing it, reflecting on the past and didn’t even know she was still beside him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for what I…I’m sorry for how I sent Robb to talk to you the other morning.”

He sucks in a deep breath, not sure he’s up for this right now.

“You should be,” a voice says from behind them. “You’re wrong about him. He’s good and kind and gentle. He’s worth a thousand Joffreys, a million. He’s made mistakes but he’s not…he’s…”

Goddamn, there she is defending him again. He’s going to fucking marry her if she’ll ever agree. 

“Sansa, it’s okay,” he says.

"No, she's right. Robb's...he hates how he behaved the other morning and he hates me for putting him up to it."

"He doesn't hate you, Mom."

"He could never hate you, Mrs. Stark." 

_And he made the choice he made to come there and talk the way he did._

Oh yeah, he's still pissed over it and still hurting even more but maybe someday they'll talk again and maybe someday the resentment will burn off. It doesn't have to be like permanent ink. That can be more like henna. 

Her mother’s head is bowed and his baby starts choking up because she gets emotional. He understands. He doesn’t want them to fight over him either.

He can see Rickon watching the three of them with big owl eyes. It's nearly midnight and the kid needs to be home. Jon stands up and wipes off his hands so he can put the jack and tools back where they go. He’ll check with Mance about finding her a replacement tire if she wants. 

But before he can edge past Mrs. Stark, she grasps his forearm with her soft hand that’s chilled to the bone from standing out here in the cold while he changed her tire. “Jon…”

He forces himself to meet her eyes, Ned Stark’s words echoing in his head along with the ones this woman had said to him at his funeral.

_“Ned always thought very highly of you, Jon.”_

It had been like a knife in the gut at seventeen with all his confused, guilty and enraged feelings. He’d heard the words and imagined he’d killed his best friend’s father somehow by doing the things he’d done, by letting down the man who'd called him son. 

She hadn’t meant them that way but that’s how it’d hit him at the time and it’d stayed with him.

“Yeah?”

“Would you want to come over for dinner sometime? Sunday maybe? I’d love to have you and Sansa come to dinner.”

"Dinner?" he croaks, not expecting the offer at all. 

Sansa’s crying softly and he wants to hold his baby. He’s scared though, he doesn’t know exactly how to take this. He’s not sure what to say.

“I’ve got some mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer we could have for dessert.” Is she joking? Is he ten? Fuck it, he does love mint chocolate chip. He’s sure to look gobsmacked. “I remember how it was always your favorite,” she says sheepishly in the face of this gaping silence. 

“You do?” he hears himself whisper.

“I remember lots of things about you, Jon, and..." She sniffles and maybe changes what she was going to say. "...and I…I hope you’ll come join us for dinner.”

He looks to Sansa, wanting to know her opinion. She gives him a watery smile and a shrug. She’ll leave it up to him. Her family means a lot to her. Therefore, they mean a lot to him. Hell, they always have. 

“Okay, I'll come.” 

And he will. It’ll be awkward as fuck maybe but Sansa will be by his side. He can do this. He’s endured far worse stuff that sitting down to Sunday dinner with the Starks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter with Jon and Cat activated my Jon Snow Feels™️ and I wanted to give some more backstory on how Jon wound up as an ex-con so I hope you enjoyed it. I'm going to work on an update for Be My +1 this coming week when I can write and I've got some other updates and new stuff I'd like to finish/post but I'll roll back around to this one for Sunday dinner before too long hopefully. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and hope you're staying safe and well :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and I'm hoping it's not dull but it's setting up some things for the next one and the one after so please bear with me :)

Tension is something Jon Snow is very familiar with.

His belly used to ache a lot when he was a kid though he didn’t understand the correlation then. When his old man would come around, when his mom would be in between jobs and stressed, when she had a new boyfriend who was trouble, the sensation would build and build, a twisted up feeling in his guts, a lingering headache which hindered his focus and made him irritable, a general sense of unease and unwellness that would eventually come to a head. He might even become physically ill before it started to let up again. A lot of times that would happen at school where the nurse would tell him he wasn’t really sick and stop faking it. But he had felt sick. Was vomiting all over his math test not proof enough that it wasn't fake?

When he’d been getting into trouble as a teen, he'd responded differently but the tension had been even worse. The guilt of doing the things he was doing while knowing he shouldn’t be doing them, the disappointment on his mother’s face when he’d get caught, the anger he’d felt towards most of the other authority figures in his life, all the mixed emotions that Ygritte had brought out in him. Back then, he’d bleed off that tension in unhealthy ways, like getting high or in a fight.

Inside, tension is something that never leaves you. People who’ve never been inside can’t fully understand it, the way that place eats at you, tears you down and spits you out. 

Some guys prayed or meditated, shit like that, but Jon had never done those things much on the outside and he’d felt like a phony suddenly calling upon a higher power or whatever when that wasn’t who he was. He does think a lot, his anger management counselor has suggested he internalizes things too much, but he's always needed a physical outlet, something to do with his hands when the thoughts get to be too much. So, Jon worked out as much as possible inside to not only avoid getting his ass beat or worse but to ease some of that tension. He's even joined a cheap, barebones gym since he got out so he can keep doing that. And Sansa seems to appreciate his efforts so there's a bonus. 

Anyway, that's tension and how he deals with it. He's capable of handling change, new situations, etcetera in a more positive way than he used to.

It doesn’t stop him from picking up the phone.

Sansa’s snoozing peacefully even though it’s still kind of early. He grins smugly to himself thinking he might’ve worn her out. God knows, he wore himself out.

He’d been tense all day at work, worrying about tomorrow but it’s like she’s got a sixth sense sometimes.

She’d come by, saying she’d help him close up shop. Sweet as sugar in her short skirt, she’d chatted with Mance, Dalla and Tormund until they’d left. He’d busied himself with an oil spill. He hadn’t trusted himself to speak more than necessary.

His pulse had been thrumming and blood was pooling in his crotch the second he turned the key in the lock. She’d reached out to hug him and they’d shared a kiss. The second they’d pulled back from that kiss, her eyes had flashed and he’d known this was happening, right then and there.

 _“I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss,”_ Sansa had said, batting those big blue eyes at him. _“I just figured you might need me. We'll wait until we get to your place if…”_

 _“No, no…don’t worry about him. I need you, baby,”_ he’d croaked, guiding her down between his legs.

His coveralls had been around his ankles with Sansa’s sweet little mouth sucking his cock before the others had probably made it home. A better way to blow off tension than the stuff he used to do even if the leather sofa in Mance’s office wound up seeing more NSFW action that would probably get Jon’s ass canned and then kicked, no matter how much Mance liked him. 

Of course, it was once they'd got back to his that the real fun had started. Sansa will probably tell him he should clean his kitchen countertop before they eat or prepare food there again. 

_But I ate. Best meal I've ever had there._ He'd swear he can still taste her. 

The phone's ringing so he lets go of Sansa’s hair where he’d been tenderly running his finger through it as she sleeps. It rings and rings. It’s 9:30. She’s a bit of a night owl but not tonight perhaps.

Just as he’s expecting the voicemail, someone picks up. There’s a good deal of rustling around and his guts automatically clench up. It’s been awhile since he’s called this late. She’s not always been alone when he has. She’s not always been sober either.

He hears a vague murmur that might’ve been a ‘hello.’

“Mom?”

“Jon?”

His name is only one syllable but she stretches it out and that clenching eases at once with the way her voice goes from sleepy to pleased, awake and coherent on its trip from the J to the N.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hey, sweetie. Are you okay?”

He grimaces, regretting the times he’s called her because things were not okay. All the same, he can answer her honestly when he says, “Yeah, things are great.”

He moves out of the bedroom to talk, to share some news and explain what’s bugging him tonight. They’re Sansa’s family and part of him hates to admit to her how nervous he is. His girl's been defending him, she believes in him but he's still struggling to believe in himself. He also fears that Mrs. Stark's Sunday Dinner is more about keeping her daughter from slipping out of her grasp completely than really wanting Jon in their lives again.

His mother will understand. Also, she’s known Sansa nearly all her life. He figures she might be happy for him.

“You and Sansa?” she asks…a touch more dubiously than he’d hoped.

He’s already tensing up, growing defensive. “Yeah.” Even his own mother doesn’t think he’s good enough for her. Okay, probably not but he tends to think the worst. Why? _Experience._

“That's great, sweetie. I didn't know you'd been seeing her."

 _Well, it's not like I'm checking in daily or you're still tucking me in at night._ He saves his sarcasm. His mom doesn't deserve it. "It's been going on over a month but I just hadn't wanted to, uh...get ahead of myself."

“And how are the rest of the Starks?" _What do they think of this?_ is the real question she's asking. 

“Uh, okay. Mrs. Stark invited me over for dinner tomorrow.”

_I wish you were going to be there with me._

He’s not a kid. He can do this. And, his mom might feel uncomfortable in her own way around them. She still lives next door but her and Mrs. Stark don’t speak as much since Mr. Stark died and their boys stopped playing together every day, barely at all since Robb went off to attend college at State and Jon was on his way to the other variety of State.

 _“It’s okay. Everybody's got their own lives to live and some friends pass in and out like waiters in a restaurant,”_ his mother had said after he’d got out and asked her about the Starks. 

Transient, not permanent. But then again, things could change someday. He hates to think that maybe her and Mrs. Stark don't talk anymore because of him.

“Since Sansa and I will be over there for dinner, I was thinking we may as well stop in and see you if you’d want to see us and if you’re...not working.”

She’s usually off Sundays. But once upon a time, she wasn’t usually sober on them either. He doesn’t blame his mom. She’d got a shitty hand in life. And she was a good mom to him. He’d kick anyone’s ass who suggested otherwise. Her drinking hadn’t become a problem until after the last time they’d seen his dad when Jon was fourteen. Even then, he hadn’t really been cognizant of it being a thing even if the other ladies in the neighborhood gossiped about it behind their fences and hedges. Lyanna Snow had worked long hours as a functioning alcoholic to take care of her son to the best of her ability.

But when he’d got out of Juvenile at eighteen, she’d opened up to him about her issues and sought some help. He’d been proud of her. Even better, she’d been proud of herself. But after that fucker who’d used her as a punching bag had stripped that away again and her son had gone to prison for sorting him out, she'd stumbled again. 

He hates to think about it, blames himself even though she says that's bullshit and it was her choice to drink, her choice to take a chance on that guy. All the same, she’s on the wagon again. He hopes she can stay there. He's going to stay there, too. He doesn't want to fuck up with Sansa. The thought of fucking up with her scares him more than anything. 

“Are you kidding? I’m off and of course, I’d love to have you both come over!” his mother squeals in excitement and Jon can’t help smiling like a little kid getting handed cotton candy at the circus.

He loves his mom and she loves him. If he’s going to see a passel of Starks tomorrow, may as well get all the Sunday visiting done in one fell swoop.

When he hangs up, he sees Sansa’s standing in the doorway between him and the bedroom. She’s wearing his tee. It's not that long and he can see her wolf's head. Permanent, not transient. She's also still missing her panties. His cock twitches at the mere thought and he starts to grin at her. 

But something seems a bit off. She’s looking at him but also _not_ looking at him. 

“Everything alright?” 

_I was about to ask you the same._ “Yeah. I called my mom. I was thinking we could go see her after dinner.” Shit. Maybe he should’ve asked Sansa first if she minded. That’d be good boyfriend behavior, wouldn’t it?

“That’d be great.”

 _Whew_. But still, what’s that look about? “Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. My phone did.” Her eyes had darted away when she said that. 

“Someone called?”

She’s staring at the floor as she slowly nods. 

“Your mom?” He can feel it, his guts are already churning.

“No.” 

"Was it Robb again?"

"Nuh-uh." 

The Errant First Born had called Sansa yesterday morning to say how sorry he was that he'd missed their mother's call for help the night before and apologize that she'd had to go deal with it. _"I didn't deal with much. Jon did,"_ she'd told him, the frost in her voice more than enough to have Jon cupping his balls and grateful it wasn't aimed at him.

They'd been eating cereal at Jon's little kitchen table, discussing news headlines and their particular preference when it came to the ripeness of bananas while looking forward to their Friday off together. He'd heard Robb ask if she was with him and if Jon was available to talk. He'd shook his head at her and Sansa had understood. She'd told Robb not at the moment and ended the phone call. If he had any doubt of it, Robb must've realized he was still very much in the doghouse. 

Robb had called Jon's phone an hour later but not left a message. Jon will admit he's a little curious where the Golden Son was Thursday night but not curious enough to call back. 

But back to tonight...

"A job?" He's going to have to coax it out of her. That's okay. He's not the most patient of men but he's got all the patience in the world for her. 

"No."

She'd given her number out to a couple of friends for the henna thing and to Val. She's gotten a couple of calls so that's why she's been answering unknown numbers. Jon's going to tell her to start letting any calls go to voicemail first anyway. 

“A wrong number?” he prompts next. His hands are itching to curl into fists.

“Not exactly.” Her voice is a whisper. 

“Was it him?” There's no need to clarify the him he means. 

She raises her blue eyes from the floor to look at him imploringly. “Please, don’t do anything.”

“What’d he say?” Countering with a question keeps him from making her a promise he’s not sure he can keep. Her scowl tells him she’s far too smart not to recognize the evasion. 

“Nothing. I could…” She grimaces and rolls her neck. He hurries over, wrapping his arms around her. His baby needs to know she’s safe right now. She doesn’t need to worry about that guy or his parole. 

“You could what?” he murmurs when she sighs and he feels some of the tension melting from her body. He'll relieve all that tension for her shortly. He'll be as tender and affectionate as he knows how to be for his baby and make her forget about that guy. 

“I could hear him breathing and I...I just knew it was him again.”

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing. I hung up.”

“He call back?”

“I turned my phone off.”

“Okay. Time to get a new number maybe?”

“Yeah, you’re right. 

She’d blocked his number, then blocked the number he’d called from after she’d moved back home. But, if an asshole’s determined enough, that won’t stop him. Joffrey’s determined that Sansa won’t forget about him. Jon’s determined that Joffrey’s going to get his throat stomped if he keeps this up.

_Hello, Tension._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll have Stark Family Dinner and Jon might wind up answering a call for Sansa... 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Dialogue. Oh well :)

It’s such a simple thing. He’d told himself he could do this. He _should_ be able to do it. It’s just dinner. Just five people sitting down to dinner, Mrs. Stark, the boys, him and Sansa.

Arya doesn’t live here anymore. She’s at college down the road in Cerwyn. They’ve talked since he got out but both of them are better at one-on-one in person than electronic communication and they both loath long-winded gabbing on the phone.

 _“Maybe six,”_ Mrs. Stark had said with a nervous glance out the window. _“Robb’s going to, um…try and swing by, he said.”_

Try and swing by. Maybe six.

It’s that maybe six that’s eating at him. Is he coming to dinner or not? Are they going to talk? Are they going to fight? Jon’s not backed away from a fight in a long time but he doesn’t want to fight with him.

He’s still not sure he can face him yet either. He doesn’t care if that makes him a coward, a chicken shit. He’s not so keen to sic Sansa on her big brother again for that matter. Much as she amazed him that morning she tore Robb a new one on his behalf, he doesn’t really want a repeat.

He just wants peace. Peace and Sansa. That’s it. That’s all he wants.

That and to get off parole.

And keep fixing motorcycles for Mance.

He’d like to watch Sansa graduate from college, too, and maybe move into a less shitty apartment someday, a little house with her if they can swing it.

And he wants his mom to be proud of him and he’d like to get married to Sansa someday and watch her belly grow round with his kid and he’d come home from work like one of those corny-ass sitcoms and they’d come racing to greet him and…

_Okay, I want a lot of shit deep down but this isn’t the time. Fuck…_

Maybe he can’t do this after all.

“Jon?” Sansa calls through the door. “Are you alright?”

He groans and flushes the toilet he wasn’t using. “Yeah, just a sec.”

He turns on the sink and washes his hands for show but then starts scrubbing when he sees a smidge of grease under his left thumbnail he’d missed somehow. That shit is impossible to get out sometimes. Great. Now, he’s soiled Mrs. Stark’s pretty little hand towel in the downstairs’ guest bathroom. He’s…

“Fucked. I’m fucked. Fucked in the ass by Sunday Dinner. What in the fuck?”

“Jon?”

His head whips towards the door. That wasn’t Sansa.

He opens the door to find grey eyes meeting his.

“Holy shit. It is you!” she cries.

“Arya!” he manages to gasp, already smiling before she’s leaping into his arms. It’s a good thing he’s ready for it or they would’ve wound up in a heap on the floor. She’s a little thing, a head shorter than her big sister but fierce. They’ve got that in common but most people don’t see it. Hell, he used to be one of those people. 

He hugs her tight because he’s missed her. He opens his eyes to see his baby watching them both, her blue eyes wet with tears, happy ones. 

"You did this?" he mouths just for her as Arya's still clinging to him. 

She grins and tells them, “Dinner’s ready.” 

* * *

Seven. Seven people sitting down for dinner at this table. 

When he was a kid, he used to believe that bullshit about seven being a lucky number like some magic was attached to it. 

Sansa's on one side of him and Bran on the other. Mrs. Stark's at the foot of the table and Robb at the head...where Ned used to sit. Fuck, that just seems so weird. Rickon and Arya are across from him. 

He glances at Mrs. Stark's silverware. It's fancy stuff. Guess she's not too worried he's going to pocket any of it. No, he never would but the last few times he was in this house, Mrs. Stark was watching his every move. But today, she seems like she's busy watching everyone else's. She's chattering away and it occurs to him she's nervous. It's her table in her house. There's no need for her to be nervous. 

"Rickon, eat your carrots. They're good for your eyes," Mrs. Stark admonishes.

Rickon's eyes seem to roll pretty well on their own but he shovels in a bite. 

"Bran, is your food alright?"

"It's fine, Mom."

Bran's a vegetarian now and isn't partaking of Mrs. Stark's roasted chicken. _Too bad for Bran_ , Jon thinks as he eyes another piece for himself. 

"It's so nice that you were able to come home for the day with us, Arya. I hope you've not got any studying to do."

Arya shrugs indifferently and says, "Sansa told me Jon would be here."

That almost sounds like the only reason she came was to see him. By the way Mrs. Stark grimaces, he thinks she must've taken it that way, too. She doesn't say anything else for several minutes and they all silently chew their chicken and rice...or rice and beans in Bran's case. 

“How are things at work?”

It takes him a second to realize Robb’s addressing him. It sounds like something Mr. Stark might’ve asked him once upon a time. _“How’s Algebra treating you, boys? How’s the soccer team looking this year?”_ Robb is in Mr. Stark’s seat so maybe that’s natural now. 

“Really good, thanks.” This reminds him of some alternate universe ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ shit. 

"You guys must stay busy by the looks of things from when I've driven past it."

"It's hopping most days." 

When has Robb driven past Mance's? Jon's parole officer has made one work place visit since Jon started there but why would Robb bother? Does he think he's his parole officer, too? 

Or maybe Robb's just curious, just looking out for everyone...like Mr. Stark used to do. 

Fuck. That's it, isn't it? 

Robb lost his dad like the rest of them. He was only seventeen when Ned died. But unlike the others, he's felt like he's had to step into his dad's place, too. Jon never thought of it quite like that never having had a real father figure established in his own home growing up. Jon was so busy fucking up at seventeen, oscillating between feeling angry and feeling guilty. He wonders what it must've been like to think he had to fill the role of a grown man at that age. And not just any grown man either. 

It doesn't fix everything but maybe he's not feeling so angry towards Robb at the moment. 

“Jon, would you like more rice?”

“Uh…sure, Mrs. Stark.”

“I'd like it if you'd call me Catelyn, Jon. You're not a kid anymore.”

“Right...Catelyn.”

Maybe seven _is_ a lucky number. Or maybe he _did_ stumble into that alternate dimension and Ozzie and Harriet are waiting to peek around the corner and say 'boo!' Maybe Little Ricky's going to start singing any minute, too. 

He snickers under his breath, unable to help himself and feels Sansa’s hand on his knee. He glances over at her, sees her look of concern and gives a subtle shake of his head. This is okay. It’s weird as fuck but okay. No one’s ready to throw punches at least. 

But as he’s passing the rice back to Mrs. Stark, Arya pipes up, that little shit stirrer extraordinaire. “So, where’s your tattoo, Sansa? Can I see it?”

The rice bowl makes a _ker-thunk_ sound when it lands heavily on the table. He didn't drop it. Catelyn did. 

Sansa’s hand is no longer on his knee. “Later, Arya.” She's fiddling with her hair. Arya looks ready to bust a gut so he'd bet Sansa's glaring at her. They love each other but they're still more than capable of riling each other up. 

“The henna’s right there on her wrists, Arya,” Bran says in a very patronizing tone for a kid brother.

“Not the henna, _Bra-an."_ She stretches out her kid brother's name, a playful 'fuck off.' "I'm talking about the permanent one.”

“The…what?” Mrs. Stark says, her eyes wide as she stares at Sansa who is suddenly studying her lap. 

"You got a permanent tattoo?! Like Jon?!" Rickon asks, clearly gobsmacked.

Robb clears his throat like Mr. Stark used to do when he had something to say. Jon glares at him. He's not her father and he'd better not even fucking dream of saying jack shit about her getting a tat.

"Yeah, I got a permanent one a few weeks ago," Sansa says quietly. 

Permanent, not transient. 

Except apparently Sansa’s kept this to herself. 

What does that mean?

Maybe it’s best if he keeps his mouth shut. Sansa’s more than capable of speaking up for herself and this is her family. Plus, she’s an adult even if Mrs. Stark only wants to acknowledge it when it suits her. 

Except, she’s spoken up for him more than once lately and…

“It’s a wolf’s head and it looks amazing. She designed it herself and the artist did a fair job recreating it. I’m always so impressed by her drawings. I can barely draw stick figures. Did she tell you about the graphic design course she’s taking this summer? She's sure to ace it.”

He's blabbing away like an idiot. _Nice job keeping your mouth shut_. They’re all staring at him like he's grown a second head. Well, not all of them. Arya’s grinning at him and Sansa’s…fuck, she’s looking at him like he just hung the goddamn moon or something. 

“Could you pass me those carrots, Robb?” he says to carry the conversation forward. 

Robb nods and passes the carrots. Sansa hand’s back on his knee and they share a smile. No one's thrown a punch yet. 

* * *

“Nothing but net!” Rickon shouts when he sinks his shot from well past their imaginary three-point arc. 

“Blind luck,” Bran grumbles. 

“It’s not luck when you’ve got all this talent at your fingertips.” 

Rickon wiggles his fingers in Bran’s face. Bran looks ready to bite them off. So much for the vegetarian. 

“Come on, boys. My turn,” he says and Rickon tosses the ball to him. 

Three guys playing horse. 

Fan-fucking-tastic. 

But it is sort of. He can’t remember the last time he played basketball out here on the Starks’ driveway. He was younger than Bran, probably closer to Rickon’s age. 

Arya says basketball sucks and blows so she’s just watching them. They’ve already ribbed her about getting out the step ladder if she changes her mind and wants to play. All three of them were threatened with a kick in the nuts for that.

Sunday Dinner has been consumed and it didn’t kill him. Obviously, the food wasn’t going to kill him. Mrs. Stark’s always been a good cook. The conversation was...okay. It was tolerable. And the mint chocolate chip was excellent. He’s pleasantly stuffed and looking forward to him and Sansa going over to see his mom. 

Right now though, Sansa’s in the kitchen with her mother ‘helping clean up’ which probably means she’s getting asked a hundred and one questions. He’s trying not to feel too nervous over that and hopes his baby's okay without him. The question he keeps picturing Mrs. Stark posing is 'what do you see in him?' What _does_ she see in him?

Standing right where Rickon just did, he shoves the worries away, concentrates and takes his shot. Another prison yard activity that helped him hone a skill. 

“You nailed it!” Rickon shouts, giving him a high-five. 

The point of horse is actually for the guy following your shot to miss but Rickon just seems pleased that Jon made it because now Bran’s got to make it or else. Doesn't matter. Jon’s grinning like an idiot over that high-five. From a scared mouse the other night to high-fives, it’s an improvement to say the least.

There’s clapping behind him and he just knows who it is. He turns to find Robb with his sleeves rolled up. 

“Robb, play with us! We can play two on two!”

"Yeah! Please, Robb?!"

They sound like excited little boys wanting their daddy to come play with them. Jon's heart aches for them.

“In a sec, guys. Can I talk to you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The younger Starks start bickering over continuing the game since maybe Robb’s going to join in and they can stop playing horse.

“You’re just trying to get out of making a fool of yourself,” Rickon tells Bran.

Jon follows Robb to the back patio area. They look like mirror images with their hands shoved into their pockets as they look at each other. He feels ridiculous...and exposed. He's not saying shit until Robb does.

Robb smirks to himself after they’ve stood there staring at each other for a solid minute. “I should’ve brought a couple of beers out here with us to break the ice.”

“I drove us over here and I’m on parole. Not worth the chance.”

“Right. Sorry.” He scrubs at his face and spits it out. “There wouldn't be ice to break if it wasn't for me. I’m sorry. I was a total dick the other morning coming over to your place the way I did. That was nearly the most dumbass thing I’ve done in a long time.”

“Nearly? Since when?” Jon chuckles.

“What?”

“You were always doing things right. I did the dumbass things.”

“No, I’ve done lots of that, too. Jon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve not been a better friend to you.”

"Nah, you...you didn't need to get mixed up in the stuff I was mixed up in. You were smart."

"And I was supposed to be your best friend."

“Are we still friends though?” he asks, his chest suddenly so tight he can barely breathe but needing to know. “We were friends when we were boys. We’re not boys anymore. I’ve let you down enough that I wouldn’t blame you if…”

“We’re still friends. You’ll always be my friend…I hope. Maybe I did feel let down or disappointed or whatever. I didn't understand a lot of the choices you made but then I cut you out, too. But the other morning was my lowest and I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said that word five times now.”

“And I’ve meant it every time. You’ve not exactly accepted my apology yet.”

“True. Maybe say it one more time?”

Robb snorts but says it again. “I’m sorry. Sansa loves you and that’s great. My sister's a big girl and I’m glad you’re happy together. Beyond that, it’s not my business.”

“No, it's not but I know you were sort of sent there.”

“That doesn’t make me proud of what I did. In fact, that makes it worse. Mom means well. She doesn’t hate you or…”

“She doesn’t?”

“No, she doesn’t, Jon. But she’s always been kind of…”

“You’re her kids. I get it.”

Catelyn loves her kids. She’s fiercely protective of those she loves. He respects that. Once upon a time, Mrs. Stark looked out for little Jon Snow from next door with that same fierceness when warranted maybe but, once he wasn’t so little anymore and once he started messing around with stuff she didn’t approve of…well, her priority was always going to be her own kids. 

What would Sansa do if they had a kid whose friend suddenly started getting into trouble? Who started smoking weed and stealing cartons of cigarettes from the corner store? What would she do? What would he do? Try and guide their kid's friend or focus on protecting their kid?

_We’d help the kid, help him see the error of his ways._

It sounds nice. But what if the kid didn’t want to be helped? 

Heavy shit to ponder on a Sunday afternoon with a full belly. 

_But as long as we’re asking questions…_

“Where were you the other night when your mom had a flat?”

Robb’s whole posture shifts. From apologetic, friendly and open to furtive and closed off. “I lost an account that day and was busy drinking my sorrows away. I feel asleep early and missed her call.”

Jon's spent enough time with liars to know a lie, especially when it's Robb trying to tell it. “That’s bullshit.”

“It was a major account.”

“Still bullshit. I’m not forgiving a guy who’d stand there lying to me.”

Robb rolls his eyes just like Rickon did earlier but the furtiveness drops. “I did lose the account and I had been drinking. But I got to think about you and Sansa and then just about Sansa and…I took a drive.”

“Drinking and driving, Robbert? That’s a very poor decision,” Jon says in his best imitation of Mr. Stark. 

“I know. Lots of dumbass things lately, like I said.”

“Where did you go?”

“South of here.”

“How far south? Was there no cell reception down there?”

“I’d turned my phone off. And far enough to realize I was doing something crazy. I pulled over to sleep it off. Rolled into the office the next morning looking like something the cat drug in. They’ll probably be wanting to have a chat with me before long, the kind where they show me the door.”

“Sorry.”

“Nope, I’m the one saying that today.”

“Alright. Apology accepted. Where were you going?”

Robb looks uneasy again but also angry. "She's my little sister."

Jon's scalp is tingling. This is not like Robb. "What were you going to do?"

“Something that might get me in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Big trouble. I wanted to make that guy hurt...bad.”

"Joffrey?"

"Yeah."

"Huh." They stare at each other several seconds before Jon tells him, "Well, get in line." 

* * *

The visit with his mom was good. She was so ecstatic to see them, he feels guilty for not going by more often. They should change that. 

He’s not the world’s biggest conversationalist though and, even after two rounds of b-ball with the Stark boys (Jon and Rickon kicked Robb and Bran's ass first and then got theirs handed to them the next time), he was still looking to work off Sunday dinner so he’d fixed his mom’s bathroom vent and then replaced the lightbulb in her attic while Lyanna had shown Sansa way too many embarrassing pictures of him as a kid with pin curls.

 _“Must you?”_ he’d whined.

 _“I really must. You were such a cutie-patootie,”_ she’d said grinning and pinching his cheek before pulling out yet another damn baby book.

_"Oh my God, woman."_

They'd both been cackling when he'd tromped off again to see if maybe his mom needed an oil change...or her engine rebuilt. 

Anyway, Sunday Dinner’s over and that monkey’s off his back. Mrs. Stark still has all her silver and she’d told him she’d love to have him over again soon. He’s not sure if she’d _love_ it but she seemed sincere enough. It's a good start anyway and he'll take it. 

The boys want him to come back and Arya was busy telling him she’d be home over the summer. 

And yeah…he’s maybe made up with Robb. It’s still kind of tentative though, transient. 

_Not permanent yet. Not like me and her_.

“Come here, baby,” he tells her when she’s dressed in nothing but his t-shirt. 

She flops on the bed beside him, giggling over the baby books still. "Your mom is so sweet."

"Yeah, she is. I'm glad you two had fun laughing at my expense."

"We weren't laughing at you. We were admiring the handsome baby you were."

"Thanks...I think," he snorts before walking his fingers up her thigh. She's not wearing panties. Sunday Dinner isn't sitting _too_ heavy, thank God. 

“Is it still sensitive?” he asks of the wolf’s head.

“Not really. I'm glad you like my design.”

“I love it,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to kiss it softly...and nuzzling his way over a few inches. 

Her breath hitches and her fingers are threading through his curls. But she's got something to say. “Do you really think I could be a graphic designer someday?”

He looks up from that sweet, pink pussy that's begging for his tongue. His girl gets all of his attention when she's asking stuff like that...even over her sweet, pink pussy.

“Sansa, I think you could be just about anything you want to be.” 

She bites at her plump bottom lip and nods, pleased by his response. Her knees sag apart, an invitation. 

But now he's thinking and it's going to bug him if he doesn’t go ahead and ask. 

“What’d your mom say in the kitchen?”

“Not a whole lot. It was kind of awkward. I think she’s not sure what to make of us but she’s trying to figure it out.”

He huffs a laugh. “That makes two of us."

“What?”

Shit. Why’d he say that? She looks all worried now. “I just meant that I, uh…”

“Jon? Are you…are you not…sure about us?” she asks, her chin starting to tremble. 

Wait…what?! “No! No, baby. I’m sure of us." He moves from between her thighs until they're face to face. "I guess I'm just wondering...why me? Why would a girl like you wanna be with someone like me?” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “They’ll get stuck that way if you keep doing that.” She sticks her tongue out at him. He’s forced to retaliate with some tickling. 

When they stop laughing though, she reaches for him, kisses him slow and deep. “Why do I want to be with you?” He waits with bated breath for her to answer the question she’s posed. “Because you’re kind and gentle despite your rough exterior. You’re thoughtful and you care about things I’m interesting in. You never shrug them off. You love your mom and you do sweet little things when you think no one’s paying attention. You respect me. I know I can trust you. You work hard and you're working to improve your life when some guys would just give up. You’re protective of me and make me feel safe and loved and never pushed to do things I don't like. I love you. That’s why I want to be with you."

"Well...damn. That's...I love you." 

"Why do you want to be with me?”

“I'll need pen and paper to write all of it down, three or four sheets at least. It'll take me a while but you're too amazing for me to leave anything out.” He starts to get up.

"Where're you going?"

"I'd better get started." 

She yanks him backwards, laughing and nuzzles at his neck. “You’re staying right here. You can present your list to me tomorrow at dinner.”

"Yes, ma'am."

Her fingers trace the tattoo on his shoulder. “Which one is your favorite?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the wolf…maybe the crow." He'd got the crow from Val when he'd got out of prison. Free like a bird but eagles seem overdone. "Which one do you like best?"

"The wolf is my favorite."

"Why didn’t you tell your mom about yours?” he asks, letting the vulnerability and fear flavor the question a little.

“Because I figured she’d freak. I should’ve known Arya would delight in ratting me out.”

“She sure did,” he snickers. “Did your mom freak?”

“No. She just asked what it was and where. I showed her. She complimented the design...very begrudgingly." They both laugh. No, tattoos wouldn't be Mrs. Stark's thing ever. That was okay. "Not telling them had nothing to do with us or how I feel about you, Jon. I was just avoiding a hassle."

"Okay." He might've melted with relief there.

"I could see you and Robb out back talking.”

“Oh yeah?”

“What’d you talk about?”

“Stuff. He apologized and we’re maybe okay.”

“Good. I'm still pissed at him but I'm glad for you.”

"Will you forgive him eventually?" he teases.

"Eventually," she agrees.

He kisses her nose. "Found out where he was the other night."

"Where?"

"Half-lit and on his way to kick Joffrey's ass." 

She stiffens. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

She pulls away, starts to rise. "I don't want either of you getting into trouble over him."

"I know. Sansa..."

"I mean it, Jon." Damn, she's pissed. 

"Okay, okay. I got it."

"He's done enough. He doesn't get to hurt me anymore. You two getting into trouble would hurt me."

"Alright. I understand." 

He does understand. He respects her wishes and wants to please her. He's still not sure how he'll deal with Joffrey though if push comes to shove. 

And like Murphy and his laws or some test Jon's meant to take, her phone starts ringing right then. Unknown number. She's going to the phone store tomorrow to get her number changed but they hadn't bothered on a Sunday. 

"I'm ignoring that." She's trembling though and when it stops ringing only to immediately start ringing again, she turns it off and says she needs to brush her teeth.

"Hurry back," he tells her, hoping he sounds calm, cool and collected. 

But when the bathroom door closes, his palms are sweaty. He's twitchy with it, a junkie that can't resist the lure. He switches her phone back on, telling himself Catelyn might call. 

He respects her. She can trust him. But this fucker shouldn't get to keep messing with her head and ruining her peaceful moments. 

It starts to vibrate at once and instinct takes over.

He answers and it's quiet. They're both breathing heavily. He's juiced on adrenalin, itching for the clash. He supposes fuckface is juiced, too. Except he's hoping to get off on scaring her or something. He needs his cage rattled. Maybe _he_ needs to be the one who's scared for a change.

The quiet stretches on with Jon not saying a word. Maybe Joffy's wondering why she's not said hello or hung up by now...or if she's got a cold based on the heavy sound of her breathing. 

"Sansa?" he huffs, obviously annoyed. He sounds like such an entitled frat boy asshole. He shouldn't be permitted to say her pretty name with his dumb fuck voice. 

"Nope, this is not Sansa," he growls into the phone, letting the malice drip from his voice. 

"Uh..." Joff's not sounding so sure of himself now. "I must've dialed the wrong..."

"No, you've got the right number and it's time we had a chat, shithead." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonsa Drabblefest starts Sunday so I've got a few of those to post and then I'll get back to updating WIPs after it's done. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

“You done with that yet?”

“Almost. Fuck!” Skinned his knuckles. Son of a bitch, that hurts. “I’ll get started on the Ducati after lunch if that’s okay.” Scrambler, a fucking cherry ride. Probably could fetch eleven grand used once the repairs are made. Some people really have more money than sense.

“Sure, sure…” Mance says, passing him a clean rag for his knuckles.

The bleeding stops but he’s still hovering over him. Is he in trouble? He’s been working on the carburetor all morning but Mance knows as well as anyone what a pain in the ass they can be.

Jon keeps his head down as his heartrate kicks up, hoping the old man will move on soon. _Go see what that dipshit Jarl’s doing. I’m good here._

Mance just keeps watching him and his hackles are starting to rise. He’s never handled being watched well. Maybe too many years of literally being watched by a variety of authority figures did that, not to mention he’d given them pretty good reasons to watch him in the first place.

“Where’s Varamyr?” he asks. Fuckface hadn’t shown up this morning and no one knows where he is except Mance maybe. Jon doesn’t much care where he is but he needs to release the tension from being watched. Biting the boss’s head off isn’t the smart way to do it.

Mance lowers his voice. “He’s, uh…paying a call at county this morning.”

“No shit? He’s in jail?”

“Why don’t you repeat that a little louder so the whole class can hear you?” Mance snarls, telling Jon in no uncertain terms to cool it. Mance doesn’t like drama around the shop and won’t want everyone else gossiping all day about Varamyr getting hauled in.

“Sorry.”

Mance’s mouth’s still pursed but he nods before elaborating. “He got into it with his old lady last night. Cops came out and he left with them.” Varamyr had no say in that part, Jon’s sure.

“Well…shit.”

Varamyr’s on parole, too. Of course, if he hit his woman, Jon hopes his ass goes back to prison. Actually, the fact that there’s some woman out there willing to be with Varamyr in the first place still astounds Jon. She’d be better off taking a look around for someone else while fuckface is paying his call.

All the same, it sends an unpleasant prickly fear through Jon hearing about one of the other guys going to jail. He’s violated the conditions of parole by picking up the new arrest. That innocent until proven guilty stuff doesn’t apply to cons. Well, it does but not the same. Just getting arrested is enough to be violated and, knowing Varamyr, he’s guilty. He’ll probably be behind bars for weeks while other people decide what to do with him. And then he could very well find himself back up at State to flatten his time instead of at Mance’s working on cars and visiting his parole officer once a week.

_Is that what you want for yourself?_

Fuck, no.

“Anyway, don’t worry over Varamyr.”

Jon wasn’t planning on it. He was just thinking how he wouldn’t want to be in Varamyr’s place. _“You getting into trouble would hurt me.”_ Wasn’t that what she’d said last night right before Joffrey had called?

Mance leans in a bit, his voice even lower. “So, are you in the doghouse with your girl or something?”

Jon glances up from his work again, looking around to see if any busybodies are hanging on to their every word. He’s not about to blurt this out too loud. They’re not, thankfully. He meets Mance’s knowing brown eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

The old man grins and rolls his eyes. “You’re not whistling any today.”

“I do not whistle…much.” Then, he starts snickering because he sure as fuck does sometimes since he fell in love with the girl from next door.

Mance laughs. “I got lots of experience at fucking up, kid. You wanna talk or…”

Jon shakes his head and returns to the carburetor. “Uh, no.” _Maybe_.

“Okay. You change your mind…”

“Right.”

Is he in the doghouse? Yes.

Is he sorry for answering her phone last night and making Joffrey shit the proverbial brick? No.

Is he sorry he’s in the doghouse for all that? Oh yeah.

She’d come out of the bathroom just as he’d been getting going with the threats, figuring Old Joffy doesn’t know him from Adam and, since he’d called her wanting to start shit, it was time he learned that old adage about how sometimes the biter gets bit.

It had felt good to be honest…until he’d seen the look on her face.

Caught, red-handed. The disappointment he’d seen in her eyes had been crushing, as bad as his mom’s when he’d caught that first vandalism charge. He’d almost puked up Mrs. Stark's roasted chicken and mint chocolate chip ice cream seeing that look, probably would have if it hadn’t had hours to settle by that point. Tension tends to do that to him. 

Her anger once he'd hung up had been something else. He has a good idea of how Robb had felt that morning she’d ripped into him. He'd deserved it, just like Robb had. 

_“Please, don’t leave, baby,”_ he’d begged, not caring if she yelled at him all night, not even caring if that crusty Thorne fucker next door laughed his head off hearing Jon Snow getting his ass chewed out by his woman. So long as she didn't leave him. 

She’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to cool off, and all he could think was she’d leave him now. It would’ve been like him to run away. That’s what he’d done more than once as a kid.

But Sansa’s not him. She’s stronger than that.

 _“I’m not leaving you, Jon,"_ she'd promised, stroking his beard, making him weak with relief. _"People who love each other can get angry with each other but not leave or not leave for good. I’d just hoped you’d listen to me, respect my choice in this.”_

That had been the gut punch. Her tone and those words left him flattened and ashamed. Does she think he doesn't respect her? Doesn't listen?

_Well, do you?_

“Hey Mance?” he says before the old man can walk away.

“Yeah, kid?”

“If someone you love has a problem but doesn’t want your help with it, how do you handle that?”

This is new to him. He’s always been the one with the problems that needed help but didn’t want it. He's never been the one left to watch and worry, helplessly waiting and wanting to help even if his help wasn’t wanted. It's hard, harder than doing time in a way. 

Mance comes closer again, squats over where Jon’s working, his mouth close to his ear. “Is she mixed up with drugs or something?”

“Sansa? No way!”

He supposes it makes sense that’s where Mance would go considering his own record. Hell, Jon’s done his share of shit but not Sansa, never Sansa.

“It’s not that. She’s got a…” He stalls then. This is something she’d shared just with him, in private, wrapped up in his arms and in his bed. It’s not his place to blab about it to anyone. “I can’t tell you exactly what it is but my girl’s got a problem and she doesn’t want my help because I might get into trouble over it.”

Mance nods thoughtfully. He’s a wise old bird and Jon probably spilled more than he should’ve but he does need some advice and he sure doesn’t want to remain in the doghouse.

“You can only help people who want to be helped.” This is true. Jon knows it. “From what I’ve seen of her, she seems like a smart girl and I’m sure she’s capable of figuring out her problem in time. Be there for her, listen to what she tells you and pay attention to the things she doesn’t tell you. Do what she asks, respect her right to handle her problem her own way.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, feeling a little disappointed. He’d wanted to be told he could go ahead and beat Joffrey’s ass. If someone hurt Dalla, he doesn’t think Mance would sit tight. But, he also knows Mance is right, too.

"Go make her a good apology tonight."

"I apologized last night." _I begged and damn near cried, I was so scared._ But his baby hadn't left him, wasn't planning on leaving him. He's never going to leave her. 

Mance smirks at him. "Well, do it again."

Okay, he _had_ made Robb say 'I'm sorry' six times, hadn't he? His girl's getting a better apology tonight. 

He thinks Mance is getting ready to walk off but he doesn't. He leans back in, smelling like motor oil and Aqua Velva. "Be smart. Parole should be a cake walk for a level-headed kid like you and you'll be a free bird for good before long." 

Jon can't say many people have called him level-headed in the past. _Sansa would_. He's also got more months of parole left than he's got fingers and toes combined but he gets what Mance means. Twenty-two months over the course of a lifetime isn't some insurmountable obstacle. Old Mormont's alright anyway. The Anger Management counseling is a bore at times but, deep down, he'll admit it's helped some. _But Sansa's helped more._

He's busy thinking all this and doesn't expect Mance's next words. 

"But, if your girl’s ever in danger, if her _problem_ won’t take the hint, you come see me, alright?”

The hair on the back of Jon’s neck and arms starts to rise at the soft, menacing way Mance says that. He blinks up at him, probably looking innocent as a doe and wondering if he's saying what Jon thinks he's saying. Mance has been around the block more times than the number of candles Jon would have on his next birthday cake. He knows people, too. People Jon's never met and doesn't much want to. They'd only find pieces of Joffrey if they found him at all. Holy shit. 

"Mance, I..." 

Mance puts a finger to Jon's lips. “Nah, hush-hush an' all. She’s your girl so she’s one of us and I take care of mine.”

Then, the old man slaps him on the back and strides off to bark at Jarl, leaving Jon with _a lot_ of emotions to process while holding a carburetor in a hand with skinned knuckles.

* * *

Jon leaves Mance’s shop and heads straight home first. She’d texted her new number after she’d got it and said she’d be over at her mom’s if he wanted to stop by. 

He showers, puts on his best clothes and band-aids around his knuckles. He looks like he’s going to church…or court. Oh well. This is a first for him.

Mance had let him borrow the Kawasaki for tonight. He’s still saving up for it but soon it’ll be his. Leather jacket and boots but nice khakis. He probably looks like a tool. He needs to be careful not to get grease on these.

He stops at the grocery mart to pick up a bouquet. It’s nothing fancy but they’ve got to endure a motorcycle ride. Blue and yellow, soft like summer sunshine and her eyes. That's what they make him think of. He carefully stows them inside his jacket and zips it up even though it's warm this evening. 

He rings the bell and clears his throat, his stomach churning with nerves like a kid picking her up for a date and hoping her old man won't ride his ass too hard before they can go. He was just here yesterday but this is definitely a first, standing on Mrs. Stark’s front porch with flowers and another apology on his lips. If the boys answer, they’ll probably have a good laugh and then be asking him for a motorcycle ride. He has a feeling that wouldn’t go over so well with Mrs. Stark so he’ll have to be careful there.

Thankfully, Sansa answers the door before anyone else beats her to it. 

“You apologized last night,” she says once he's blurted out an 'I'm sorry about what I did' no sooner than she'd unlatched the storm door. Her eyes are lit up at him fresh as a daisy and dressed all nice for her and holding flowers. This wasn't a horrible idea then. 

“I wanted to again, properly. I realized that as much as I want to protect you, I do need to listen better and trust your judgment. I wanted to tell you I’m going to listen and I’m here for you and you don’t have to worry about me flying off the handle or anything. I want to be with you, not getting myself into trouble, and I don’t want to hurt you, baby.” There. He thinks he managed to get the entire speech he’s been rehearsing inside his head the past six hours right. "I'm sorry," he says again for good measure. 

She soaks that in while looking at his bandaged knuckles. “What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing. Just a carburetor being a complete pain in the ass. Or pain in the knuckles, I suppose.”

She grins before sniffing her flowers and then tenderly kissing his knuckles. The brush of her lips makes his pulse throb (and his cock twitch.) “You’re forgiven…again.” His heart is doing a tap-dance inside his chest now. “Rickon and Bran had asked if I wanted to watch a movie with them tonight.”

He nods, working to keep the smile from slipping off his face while wondering if that’s a dismissal. He can’t blame her if it is. She’s always at his place and her family wants her attention, too. Who wouldn’t?

“Right. I can head on. I won’t get in the way of your time with them.”

“Don’t be silly. They’d love to have you watch with us. It’s not my kind of movie anyway.”

“Oh. Is it scary?” The Stark kids are action-adrenaline and horror flick junkies…except Sansa.

“Apparently. They think it’s funny when I squeal and hide my eyes.”

“Those little shits,” he says but without malice. He can remember teasing her for being a 'fraidy cat too once upon a time.

“Maybe my boyfriend can hold me close during the scary parts?”

He just stares at her, slack-jawed. Boyfriend. Is it a surprise? No. But this is the first time she’s labeled him as that. It leaves him spinning but in a good way. He’s her boyfriend. The only other titles he wants in life might be husband…or father of her children.

She’s still smiling at him, her head tilted to the side, probably thinking about the scary movie he’s going to watch with her and her little brothers. He can tell her in bed tonight how much he loves being her boyfriend. He can show her, too.

“I’ll even cover your eyes for you if you like,” he promises before following her into the house.

* * *

Sometimes, being a man isn't about doing. It's about _not_ doing. 

He's responsible for his own actions. He can make choices that don't involve acting without thinking and apologizing later. Flying off in a rage, beating someone bloody, no matter how dearly they deserve it, is not something a man _has_ to do. 

Three weeks have passed since Sansa got her number changed and Jon found his way back out of the doghouse. It's been radio silence from Joffrey. If he stays where he belongs and leaves Sansa alone, Jon will let it be. He does deserve to hurt for what he did to her but Sansa doesn't want Jon to be some avenging angel for her. His girl's strong and free. She got away from that guy and she's living her life and happy. That's what she prefers. Nothing like living well to show the assholes in your life that you're a survivor.

Hopefully, Jon's threats got the point across or maybe Joffrey's drowned in a pool of his own vomit by now, whatever dumbass frat boys do on the weekends. 

Meanwhile, things are as good as ever between them, better even. A fuck-up, a fight, forgiveness, they can move on from it. They’re not transient.

Another Sunday dinner at the Starks yesterday. Things are… _good_. Better than he’d once hoped. It’s not perfect. Maybe it never will be. That’s alright. 

Him and Robb are improving. They're talking and playing hoops together with the boys once a week. It’s something Jon thought he’d lost for good once upon a time so he won’t take it for granted. Robb didn't wind up losing his job but he's looking for another one, one that he doesn't hate so much. That's good. Jon doesn't know what he would do if he couldn't work on motorcycles for a living. Maybe cars. Anyway, Robb's said he's cutting back on the drinking. Jon's told him he's there if he needs to talk. His help is there if his friend wants it. Sometimes, that's all a person needs to hear. He already knows Robb's smart enough to listen.

They still grumble about Joffrey amongst themselves on occasion but Jon’s told Robb it’s not their fight. He’s listening to his girl and what she wants, paying attention to her words and the things she doesn’t say, too. This is something he won’t get wrong. She believes in him, has faith in him. He won’t give her any reason to doubt. 

Mrs. Stark no longer watches him like a hawk when he comes over. They're...okay. Pretty good actually. They're polite but friendly, too. He secretly thinks she'll be fully won over once the first grandkid comes along. 

He’d stayed over for Rickon’s zombie apocalypse movie marathon last week and then went upstairs to crash in Sansa’s bed, surrounded by that buttery soft duvet and billion thread-count pillowcase with her scent everywhere. Lavender and lemons, citrus and mint, musk and sweat…his woman. Fuck, he adores her.

They may as well have hung a sock on the doorknob that night with the way he’d woke her up and they’d wound up going at it half the night and well into the morning hours. But _quietly_. He’s not a fucking prick and there's other people there, kids and a mom he cares about unlike that crusty ass Thorne next door at his place. 

And the next morning, Mrs. Stark had fried him an egg at breakfast, saying she remembered he preferred them to scrambled. She'd sat there smiling at him in his muscle shirt. Yeah, her eyes had been a bit squinty with all the ink on display but he doesn’t mind. 

They’re not perfect people any more than he is. That’s fine. Perfect people are exhausting…and nonexistent. 

Tonight, it’s Monday and he closed up shop. He didn’t get to have any help from Sansa with that because Sansa’s been doing some henna tattoos for Val’s shop on the side. She's enjoying it and that was just as well because Mance stayed late, talking to him about things, saying how he might someday look at retiring but he’d hate to let the shop go. 

“I think he’d like to see you running the place someday,” Sansa says thoughtfully when he told her. 

“Really?! Me?! Nah!”

“Yeah, you, Jon. He sees you’d be good at it, that you’ve got a head for business, know your stuff and are good with customers.”

“I’m not the only guy there though.”

“Well, there can only be one honcho and why else would he talk that over with you? Don’t close yourself off to the possibilities.”

She’s right and he won’t. She’s starting her summer classes next month and maybe Mance might groom him to take over someday. They could have a life outside of this shitty apartment. Aemon Jon Snow, ex-con, could wind up having everything he's ever wanted if he's smart and with a bit of luck. Who knew? 

For tonight though, he’s happy as a clam being here with her. She’s brought her kit out before they settle on what they want for take-out. They’ve been messing around with the henna. Okay, Jon’s ready to mess around in other ways.

“You smeared it,” she says, half-scolding at the crescent moon he’d just drawn below her navel and promptly smudged.

It had looked like shit. “I’ll try again...later.” He rolls off the bed and enjoys her shriek when he pulls her closer to the edge, right where he wants her. 

Her panties are whisked away and he kisses her pussy…once…twice. She starts to moan and he can see her nipples tightening up through the old t-shirt she’s borrowed from him. He doesn’t say a thing as he reaches behind him for one of the wipes dipped in olive oil. 

“Oh, that’s cold!”

He laughs and then keeps cleaning her, wiping way the henna smear. “You know? I was thinking of having Italian tonight,” he says as he pushes the t-shirt up over her head, full access to those gorgeous tits. A drop of olive oil on each nipple. He smacks his lips. “Delicious.” 

“Oh God...fuck, Jon…” she moans, her thighs smooshing together as she squirms beneath him while he suckles each breast in turn.

“Spread those legs, baby,” he tells her as his hand joins in on the fun.

Once she cums, he climbs back up onto the bed. They’ll both wind up a little greasy from the oil on her tits and tummy but he doesn’t care. He can buy new sheets, maybe some really nice ones like hers. 

Wrapping his arm around her tightly, he begins to kiss her neck before returning to her olive-oil flavored tits. 

When she’s had all of the teasing she can stand, she tugs at his boxers. “Now, Jon.” She watches him shuck off them off, her blue eyes dark and hungry. She rubs a dab of the olive oil on his chest, arms and shoulders, giving his tats a fine sheen. "You're so beautiful," she murmurs. And with Sansa, he believes it.

They're both slick and more than ready. He hold her close as he sinks into her tight pussy, relishing the way her eyes roll back and the whimper that escapes from her throat.

"I love you, beautiful," he tells her. He nips at her earlobe as he starts to thrust his hips. "Mine, mine, mine,” a primal part of him whispers. 

“I'm yours. And you’re mine.” 

That he is.

* * *

Sansa's been home for months now. The spring semester’s just finishing up when they hear the news. Joffrey got arrested for assault. He hit a girl he’d been seeing, a girl Sansa had once been friends with. It had happened at some end of the year sorority-fraternity mixer. Someone even caught the fight and hit on camera with their phone.

Joffrey's family's loaded but so is the girl's. He's not getting off with eight hours of counseling and it's not getting swept under the rug. It seems like a pissing contest of sorts might be going down between Joffrey's mother and the girl's grandmother. Sounds like that piece of shit’s going to at least serve a little time. Jon hopes he gets his ass kicked in jail...regularly. 

Still, his girl’s bothered by it. 

“It’s not your fault, baby.”

“I warned her about him.”

“And it’s still not your fault.”

“If I’d pressed charges…”

“You just wanted to get away. You wanted it to stop. No one can blame you for that.” 

And if they try to, Jon will happily set them straight.

They’re at his mom’s tonight eating homemade Pizza Margherita, a Lyanna Snow specialty picked up during her part-time stint at Hot Pie’s Pizzeria. It’s nice sitting around the table with the two women he loves most in the world. 

But, his mom’s got a hard-on for embarrassing the shit out of him apparently and she’s threatening to pull out the big guns tonight, old videos of him as a little kid she recently had transferred to disc. _Jesus, please us_. A man can only stand so much. 

“No, no way.”

“Oh, come on,” Sansa laughs as his mother pouts at him. 

“Please, sweetheart? You were such a…”

“If you say cutie-patootie, I’m walking over to the Starks. I’ll see if Bran and Rickon want to watch more zombie movies.”

He doesn’t of course because these two have him wrapped around their little fingers and are aware of it. He doesn’t have to like it though. He sits on the sofa with his arms crossed and a stern expression on his face for all of ten minutes…until Sansa’s nestled up next to him, giggling and whispering sweet nothings in his ear as his mother waxes on about the Tickle Me Elmo doll he’d loved when he was three. _"I'd swear he stuck to that doll like a tattoo."_ What in the fuck?

“Smile, cutie-patootie,” Sansa purrs in his ear. “I’ll make this up to you later.”

“Oh yeah?”

She grins and nods.

Before they leave for the night (and he’s very ready to go thanks to Sansa’s teasing no matter how much he loves his mother), he sees Sansa and Lyanna at the table with their heads together when he comes back in from fixing the motion sensor light over the garage that was on the blink. 

“Another baby book?”

“No, son,” his mother tells him, a sadder look in her eyes than he’s seen in a while. 

She hugs Sansa tightly and kisses her cheek. His girl’s eyes looks watery. What did he miss?!

His mother pulls him into a warm embrace next. “You take care of her now, you hear?”

“I plan on it.” He does. She’s his girl and he’s her boyfriend. He loves her more than anything and he’s trying to get this right. 

He waits until they’re back at his place to ask because conversation on a motorcycle isn’t ideal to say the least.

“Your mother gave me the number of someone that I could talk to about him and what happened. Maybe it will help me to work through it...for good.”

“That's good. You going to go?”

“I think I will.”

They’ve been talking about what happened down south at school lately. He’s listening. He’s not run off to kill anyone yet. Joffrey's in the slammer anyway.

She’s been opening up more than ever. His girl's been working on healing in the way that works for her. Sansa's not cold vengeance or tire irons to kneecaps either. She wants peace and time to heal and someone who loves her by her side. And she likes doing her henna when she feels tense. That's who his baby is and he loves her for who she is. She's the strongest person he knows. 

He’d asked her the other night if she ever thought about talking to someone professionally. _“You don’t have to, of course. I don’t really like my Anger Management counselor that much but…she’s helped some, too.”_ He didn’t think Sansa had given it a second thought after he’d mentioned it. Apparently, she has. 

He didn’t think she’d ask his mother for a referral and a number. Then again, his mother would know what it’s like. She’d have numbers. She’s been in therapy off and on for eight years now. The alcoholism was just the tip of the iceberg. Years of abuse, years of thinking she had somehow _deserved_ that abuse had left a profound mark. _And a son that gave her loads of heartache and worry_.

“She loves you so much, Jon,” Sansa says as if she can read his guilty thoughts. 

“I love her, too.”

“You do. You wanted to protect her. You wanted to hurt the man who hurt her and you acted without thinking. That’s a powerful sort of love.”

“I know but I didn’t mean for it to wind up hurting her like it did. I was only focused on my rage and hurting him. I'm smarter than that now.”

“I know. She does, too. Come here.” He lets her hold him close. 

"Sansa, I love you. I'd do anything for you." He would and it's scary because there's a whole lot of 'anything' out there one can do.

"I know. I love you and I love that you would but also love that you won't." 

That's it, isn't it? His love for this woman runs deep, so very deep, and it can prompt him to act or help him reign it in. He's stronger than he used to realize, stronger because he's more than just reckless emotions and lashing out. He's not that kid anymore. He's more. He wants to be for her, for his mom, for the people who matter...but for himself, too. 

“Would you go with me to therapy? If they allow that?” she asks, her voice a bit higher than normal with emotion. "I'd feel more comfortable with you by my side." 

They’re damn well going to allow that if that’s what his baby wants. “Of course, I will. Don't you know I’m sticking by you like a tattoo?”

She laughs softly but it’s true. They’re permanent ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know several of you probably wanted Joffrey beaten into a bloody pulp by Jon but, as this series went along, I decided this story was about Jon and Sansa's growth, them coming together and putting the bad parts of their past behind them and this felt like the right place to end it for me. There never was a huge master plan for this since it's just something that grew from a dialogue prompt. Maybe I'll revisit them at some point but I'll leave them here for now. ~~It can't possibly disappoint as many people as the GoT finale did at least.~~
> 
> I want to say a huge thank you to those of you who have been following this series and to Amy for inspiring it :)


End file.
